The Old Year Frost Bitten

The old year frost bitten, a barren brown became. And some Trembling in the wind at its root stood weeping for fruits With iced hearts, yet golden in the ageless sun. I danced. I am the Bojangle of the sea, surf dancing atop the rocks Insistent though they wearied me, I defer the time of clocks Let it snow, I will not melt nor thaw an inch in my faith. For they who labored, did not break their destiny's locks They had not the genes of wild cabbage in them to stay green When everything that man believes melts like a southern pole